by Susan Kay
Robin took the premier peer of the realm by the throat and lifted him forcibly out of his chair.
“I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that, Norfolk. Perhaps you would care to repeat it.”
Duels at court were expressly forbidden by the Queen, and Norfolk felt it was safe to speak freely. There had always been hostility between the two of them—once they had almost come to blows on the tennis court. Despite being an earl and one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, Leicester still never had such a thing as a handkerchief about him. When he had casually helped himself to the Queen’s to wipe his sweating face, Norfolk went purple with rage and threatened to break his racquet over the Earl’s head for his presumption. Now they made uneasy allies in a bid to rid themselves of Cecil, whose influence threatened them both.
Norfolk’s smile was calmly superior and he made no attempt to free himself from Leicester’s grip.
“I have said it before and I say it again, Leicester—you will not die in your bed unless you give over your preposterous pretensions to Her Majesty’s hand.”
Robin laughed shortly and flung the Duke back into his chair with a force that winded him.
“Well—I’m not alone now, in my pretensions to the hand of a queen, am I, Norfolk? And since Elizabeth has said that the Queen of Scots may soon find some of her friends the shorter by a head, I beg leave to suggest that it may be you, my lord, who will not die in bed.”
“A neat prophecy!” sneered Norfolk. “I suppose we can expect to see you backing out of this and creeping back under Her Majesty’s skirts. She named you well—by God, she did—you’re the next best thing to a lap-dog.”
“Even lap-dogs bite when goaded,” said Leicester shortly. “If you don’t want my teeth in your precious windpipe, Norfolk, I’d advise you to remember that.”
He turned on his heel and flung out of the room, leaving Norfolk alone, tenderly fingering his neck.
* * *
Alone with the Queen in her withdrawing room, Cecil watched his mistress pace the room in an ecstasy of rage. Her magnificent fury would have cowed the strongest man and he could not imagine anyone daring to make a stand against her in this mood, certainly not Leicester whom he had always suspected of being an arrant coward at heart.
What could have got into the man? Surely he understood by now that she was the last person in the world to be constrained by violence. Cecil had never seen her so angry. She was swearing and pacing and working herself up to such a pitch that he was truly alarmed.
“Madam, be calm,” he protested at length. “You will bring on a migraine.”
She pulled up in front of him and smiled grimly.
“I’m not concerned with my head at the moment, Cecil, but with yours. Your life! Those ignorant clods and cowards who can see no further than the ends of their noses—how dare they threaten you! By the living God, I swear I’ll play no Mary to your Riccio! If anyone lays a hand on you, my friend, I’ll see the whole pack of them hung, drawn, and quartered for it—and Leicester will be the first to die!”
Cecil smiled faintly and laid a fatherly hand on her arm in an effort to restrain her.
“I hardly think we need be over concerned with Leicester, madam. I have rarely seen a man so shaken—indeed, I’d go further and say we can probably rely on him to betray any further conspiracy as soon as it hatches. His cowardice could make him a useful ally now.”
She smiled suddenly and to his immense relief sat down in an armchair by the fireside.
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, tapping a finger on the arm of her chair. “As you say, he could be useful to us. When he’s had time to consider his folly, I shall show him how he can make amends for this outrage. I’m afraid it won’t make him very popular with his fellow councillors, but that’s no more than he deserves. He won’t intrigue against you again, Cecil—I give you the word of a prince on that.” She sighed and sat back in her chair, suddenly weary. “So—Norfolk wants the Queen of Scots, does he?”
“Nothing has been said directly, madam, but there would appear to be some support for the match among the Council.”
“And you approve?”
Cecil spread his hands in a noncommittal gesture.
“One could make out a reasonable case for it, certainly, since Norfolk is your cousin and a loyal Protestant. If Mary forswears the Catholic faith and marries him it would be possible for you to settle the succession on her without the risk of civil war. And yet—I have reservations.”
She leaned forward in her chair, holding out a hand to the blazing logs in the hearth.
“I’m relieved to hear it. Christ’s soul, Cecil, you know Norfolk by now—the pride of Lucifer and the brains of a sheep. Marry him to Mary Stuart and you and I will find ourselves in the Tower within a few months.”
Cecil frowned.
“Then you believe he would forswear his faith?”
“He’d forswear his own mother if it would gain him two crowns. I will not give my consent to this marriage, Cecil, and, if he ever finds the courage to ask, that’s exactly what I shall tell him.”
They were silent, staring at each other in the pale March sunshine, a chequerboard of light dancing on the polished floor between them.
“Guard your back, Cecil,” she said quietly, “for I fear they may yet move behind mine. And however many I hang for it, it will not bring you back to me.”
He kissed her hand affectionately.
“Don’t worry about me, madam—I have had long experience of shifting for myself. If they should force this issue to a head, abandon me and look to your own safety. I am not indispensable.”
She lifted her hand to touch the tip of his beard—a great deal more grey, she noticed, than it had been on the day he first entered her service ten years ago.
“When we have ridden out this storm,” she said gently, “I shall raise you to the peerage for that.”
* * *
The grey spring light was fading into an early dusk as Robin knelt humbly before his Queen and begged forgiveness.
“…you were right, madam—I was an arrogant fool and I should have known better than to meddle in this affair.”
“That is true,” she said calmly, “but now I am going to ask you to meddle a little longer. I don’t trust Norfolk and I want a spy in his camp. Will you do that for me, Robin, just to prove how sorry you really are? And for God’s sake get off your knees—I really can’t bear to squint down at you any longer.”
He got up abruptly and sat beside her in the window-seat, trying to read behind her unexpected friendliness.
“You’re asking me to play double agent,” he said slowly. “You realise, of course, they will probably slit my throat if they find out.”
“They won’t find out,” she said coolly, “not until it’s too late. I want you to watch Norfolk for me and the moment you sense the possibility of real danger, you will retire to one of your country mansions apparently struck with a mortal illness. There you will be seized by an overwhelming desire to confess all to your Queen and love, in order that you may die in my arms with a clear conscience. We will enact a very touching deathbed scene and I will weep copiously and beg you to consider yourself forgiven. By the time you have recovered Norfolk will be cooling his bridegroom’s ardour in the Tower. I doubt that anyone will suspect. No amount of cowardly grovelling on your part could excite the least surprise among your peers.”
He laughed suddenly and tried to take her in his arms, but to his surprise she pushed him away quite roughly.
“I wouldn’t presume too much on my forgiveness if I were you, Robin.”
Before he could recover from that unexpected rebuff, she rose swiftly and walked away from him, pouring a glass of Alicante wine from a silver decanter and mixing it with water. She did not offer him any and it was so rare for her to drink wine that he suddenly understood she must be f
ar more anxious than her cynical, rather careless manner indicated. So far there had been no active treason in this, but he trusted her shrewd political instinct rather more than his own. If she was anxious, he knew it would be with good cause. He watched for a moment in silence as she stood before the log fire. The blazing orange flames leapt upwards into the dark abyss of the chimney and winked on the dozens of tiny diamonds suspended in the hollow lace folds of her ruff, flashing on the crescent moon of emeralds which spiked her red curls in place. The finely drawn face, rose-hued in the firelight, held an endless fascination for him.
“What is it you really fear, madam,” he asked her at last, watching her steadily. “It’s not Norfolk alone, is it?”
“No.” She turned to look at him over the rim of the silver goblet. “I’m not afraid of that overweening idiot, but of the effect this business may have on the North. There’s no backbone of loyalty there, Robin—I’m just a name without a face. If the Catholics should rise in Mary’s cause they’ll play straight into Cecil’s hands, and there’ll be no way I can stand out against the outcry for stronger measures against them. My people are as dear to me as children, but it’s a foolish parent who spares the rod and spoils the child. I don’t want to punish or persecute—but I’ll do it, if it becomes necessary, if there’s no other way. I pray to God it won’t come to that and that’s why I want you to help me.”
She set her goblet down on the chimney-piece and stared into the fire, preoccupied and tense, like a wary cat surveying hostile surroundings. He crossed the room to her side and looked into the flames with her.
“I am your Eyes,” he said quietly. “I will keep watch for you. And you know that you can trust me, madam—say that you trust me, that you depend on my affection.”
He laid his hand on her jewelled sleeve but she looked away.
“I trust no one,” she said softly. “It is the sole reason I have lived this long.”
“But after all these years you must trust me.” He was aghast. “I may have worked against Cecil—you more than any know what cause I have to hate him—but I could never betray you.”
“Any dagger you aim at Cecil’s heart passes first through my own—his enemies are mine. Between us we have kept peace in this realm now for ten years and I will not allow you and the rest of your gaggle of short-sighted self-seekers to make him the butt for your own cowardice and lack of confidence.”
He had been a fool to aim at Cecil, he could see that now. But suddenly it no longer seemed important. He reached out and tilted her chin upwards so that she was looking deep into his dark eyes.
“I can’t bear to see you look at me like that, full of doubt and suspicion. At least say you trust me a little further than the rest of the pack—for God’s sake, Elizabeth, say it!”
She said nothing. There were weary lines etched at the corners of her eyes and lips and she looked as though she wanted to cry, but she did not do that either. And suddenly he could no longer bear her steely self-control. He caught her roughly, clamping his mouth over hers in a savage, bruising kiss; and when at last he released her, he said bitterly, “Does that lie to you, madam?”
“No,” she said quietly and the tears spilt down her pale cheeks at last. “If I can’t believe that then I may as well be dead.”
* * *
Throughout the tense summer months, Leicester carefully courted the confidence of his old enemy Norfolk, watching and waiting as the latter trembled towards treason and a rebellion with the Northern earls of Northumberland and Westorland. At last, scenting the real possibility of a rising, Robin felt he had played the farce as far as he dared and retired to his bed at Titchfield Manor, sending an urgent message to the Queen which begged her to visit him in his last hours.
She came immediately with a very convincing show of panic, and he confessed his faults loud and long for the benefit of her women, who could be relied upon to spread the tale.
When she had dismissed her attendants, Leicester sat up against his pillows.
“So,” she said seriously, “what have you discovered?”
“Not as much as I would like to,” he replied grimly, “but sufficient to disturb me. I think Norfolk’s working with Spain.”
“Can you prove it?”
Leicester shook his head. “He doesn’t trust me—I think he’s becoming suspicious. I wouldn’t leave him at liberty much longer, if I were you. Put him in the Tower before the whole thing gets out of hand.”
Elizabeth smiled and patted his hand on the coverlet.
“Don’t worry. I won’t let him cut your throat for this, nor Throckmorton and the rest of the pack. You will be perfectly safe as long as you take your medicine and stay quiet.”
“Medicine?” He eyed her suspiciously. “That wasn’t part of the bargain, madam.”
“I thought we ought to be convincing.” She reached for the vial she had brought from her personal physician and poured a large measure. “Drink it,” she commanded cheerfully.
He took the goblet warily and hesitated.
“Drink it!”
He swallowed a large mouthful and gagged.
“Christ! What is it? Poison?”
“It’s only a purge—roughly sufficient to keep you on the close-stool for the rest of the day.” She got off the bed briskly and handed him his velvet chamber robe. “I’d move if I were you, my love. I believe it works quite quickly.”
He got out of bed and glared at her as she wrapped the gown solicitously round his shoulders.
“We can’t have you catching a chill while you sit there,” she said gaily.
“Is this your idea of a joke?” he demanded.
“As a matter of fact I thought it might save your neck. Anyone who doubts your condition has only to come in and see you there.”
He tied the belt around his waist and went to draw the curtains around the close-stool.
“I hope you’ve got something equally fitting in store for Norfolk,” he grumbled meaningfully over his shoulder.
“Leave Norfolk to me,” she said and went out of his room.
* * *
The news of Leicester’s betrayal acted on Norfolk like a bullet from a gun on a startled rabbit. He rushed away from the court in a blind panic, first to his London house, then to his estates in Norfolk. Elizabeth immediately closed all her ports, and his attempt to get a message to Alva, the Spanish commander in the Netherlands, met with failure. Without Spanish support he knew he was lost, and when a peremptory royal command summoned him to the Queen’s presence at Windsor, he gave in to the inevitable. In a frantic attempt to avert the planned rebellion, he sent a message begging the Earl of Westmorland not to stir now or it would cost him his head, and set out himself to surrender to the Queen’s mercy at Windsor. As soon as he came within sight of the great stone-walled castle, he was surrounded by an armed guard and diverted to the Tower, there to pace and sweat and pray that his allies would obey his desperate command.
But it was too late now to retract, even though the northern earls themselves had begun to lose their nerve. Westmorland was goaded into action by his sharp-tongued wife, and Northumberland by the urgings of a loyal servant. On the 14th of November, with an army at their back, they stormed Durham Cathedral to tear up the English translation of the Bible and trample it underfoot, proclaiming their rebellion to be an act of religious warfare, the first blow in the battle to maintain the Catholic faith in England. Then they marched south to free their figurehead, the Queen of Scots, only to find that Elizabeth had already spirited her “guest” away by force of arms to Coventry. The Catholic population, which they had expected to fall upon them with open arms, looked on in polite bewilderment, reluctant to trade peace and growing prosperity for the claims of a foreign sovereign who had already wreaked havoc in her own country. The rebels were defeated before they had begun by the ten years of security and plenty which Elizabeth’
s rule had bestowed on England; and when the Queen’s army moved into the field against them under the leadership of the Earl of Sussex, the leaders fled in ignominious defeat across the Scottish border, leaving the humble peasants, who had followed their landlords blindly, to face the consequences.
And the consequences were severe. The most hardened members of the Council were shocked to learn how Elizabeth intended to handle her rebellious subjects, for it was the first time she publicly revealed the iron hand which now governed England beneath that velvet glove of loving care. Some six hundred peasants were hanged at her personal insistence, while the landowners who had raised the rebellion were spared, so that the crown might take their estates forfeit to cover the cost entailed in crushing it. Justice was sacrificed on the altar of hard economic fact. It was savagely cruel and unfair; but it worked. The North of England learnt the reward of treason and learnt it so well that it was to be the last blood shed there for the rest of the Queen’s reign. Elizabeth knew when it paid to be cruel.
In the Tower of London, Norfolk drew his first breath of relief when he heard that the Privy Council did not consider that he had actually committed treason. He smiled to himself and admitted that, thanks to Elizabeth’s prompt action, they were technically quite correct. His plans might have been nipped in the bud with a vengeance, but they were not quite extinguished. He was smuggling letters out in bottles hidden in the dark, dank privy, making good use of the Tower’s shortcomings as his royal cousin had once done before him. Already there was public agitation for his release and he was not unduly concerned to hear that Elizabeth had screamed at the Council that she would have his head on her own authority if the law could not provide for it. They also told him that she had fainted outright in the council chamber immediately after saying that and he thought he knew his royal cousin by now. She might kill six hundred faceless peasants without a qualm, but her own flesh and blood was an entirely different matter.
In the triumph of his reprieve, the amorous overtures from Mary and the veiled hints of assistance from Spain remained an irresistible temptation. Whenever common sense and timidity assailed him, he comforted himself with the plain fact that no one—no one at all—had been beheaded in England since the Queen came to the throne.